Wintersbride Read online

  From Back Cover…

  "I should have adopted you, not married you!"

  Adam's comment was made jokingly, after their hasty marriage. Admittedly, Miranda was young, but his proposal had seemed like a good practical arrangement. It would provide Miranda with a home and his daughter, Fay, with a mother.

  Understanding Fay was only part of the problem. Miranda found it increasingly difficult to live with the ghost of Adam's first wife—and to know that her growing love for him was unwanted…

  Excerpt…

  "Stay here with me until bedtime."

  Miranda's words made Adam look down at her in surprise. It was the first time she had ever tried to detain him.

  "I'm afraid you must find the evenings dull," he said.

  "No, no, the others I do not mind, but tonight is different. You are different."

  "Am I?" He stood regarding her with an odd expression. "Is it possible you are trying to flirt with me, Miranda?" he asked.

  She looked up at him. "Yes," she replied with firmness.

  His eyebrows lifted. "That might be dangerous in the circumstances," he said softly. "I'm flesh and blood, you know, in spite of our platonic agreement."

  "Our agreement was of your making," she replied, the heavy lashes veiling her eyes.

  Wintersbride

  by

  Sara Seale

  CHAPTER ONE

  Adam Chantry did not know why the fair should attract him. It was a shoddy little collection of booths and amusement stalls erected temporarily on a piece of waste ground at the end of the promenade. A sad, dirty little fair that repelled rather than invited patronage.

  Adam had walked along the front after an indifferent dinner at his hotel, cursing the late consultation at the hospital that had necessitated his staying the night. His thoughts turned home­ward to Wintersbride and the daughter he knew so little. Fay would be in bed now, perhaps asleep, perhaps in one of her imperious moods with the watchful Simmy warding off a scene with her accustomed astuteness. Thank heaven for Simmy, Adam thought rather wearily. He sighed sharply. His friends were right, he supposed; he should marry again. And he thought of Grace who had so deeply admired the dead Melisande and who was waiting humbly yet confidently to step into her shoes.

  He frowned as he walked, so that people glanced at him speculatively, wondering who he was with his faint air of distinction and dark, impatient face. But Grace—no. He could not bear to live with an echo of Melisande's early perfection. They were too alike, she and Melisande, and he wanted no more of women now, least of all the gentle but still demanding devotion that Grace was so ready to give him. His work had been all-sufficing for years, and only lately had he come to realize that his daughter perhaps needed something more than his own and Simmy's careful vigilance. She would look at him with hostile eyes, summing him up with that precocious matu­rity that was so disturbing, withdrawing from him into her own small, self-centered world.

  It was at this point in his reflections that he became aware of the fair. It was nearly dark but still too early to turn back to the hotel and go to bed. His thoughts were unpleasant company this evening, and he decided to seek a brief diversion in what attractions the fair had to offer. They were not many.

  He passed the tent that housed the two-headed calf, having no liking for monstrosities, paused for a moment to watch the hula girls waggling their hips invitingly and found that in the next booth the knife thrower had already closed down for the night. There remained only the tent of the Mighty Mesmero, whose garish poster claimed him to be The Greatest Hypnotist in All Europe.

  "Mesmero and Tojo are unique in show business," a man in a purple sweater was shouting from the little platform. "This young boy whom I will now show you was found on the steppes of Asia by the maestro, who ever since has exercised a remark­able control over him. He is both deaf and dumb and his actions are entirely governed by the Mighty Mesmero's unique powers Tojo—come show yourself."

  Adam's mouth gave a small skeptical quirk. He had yet to see the act in which genuine hypnotism was performed. The boy was climbing onto the platform, stumbling a little as he mounted the rickety steps. He was dressed in the conventional Eastern tight trousers and tunic, with tarnished costume jewellery, but the turban had been replaced by a tight spangled skullcap that gave him the illusion of a sad harlequin. Adam was about to turn away when something in the boy's expression made him frown and observe him with a more professional eye. Was it possible that this was the authentic thing after all? The boy stood there, his eyes wide and unblinking in the naphtha flares, looking straight over the heads of the small crowd. He swayed a little as he stood, and that blank, fixed gaze never wavered.

  "Deaf and dumb," the showman was repeating. "Complete­ly dependent on the Mighty Mesmero for all his actions—even his very thoughts. You will see, ladies and gentlemen, the most remarkable demonstration…"

  The man's voice went on monotonously, delivering his pat­ter, but Adam was not listening. The Mighty Mesmero in flowing robes now appeared on the platform. He was unim­pressive and Adam doubted if he could hypnotize a fly. Beside his coarse features the boy's face took on a startling look of delicacy, and he edged slightly away. Mesmero made some ineffectual gestures to the audience, then disappeared again into the tent, pushing the boy before him. Adam paid his sixpence and joined the small knot of people who followed them.

  The tent was dark and stuffy and there was the heavy scent of incense burning somewhere.

  Behind the scenes someone started up a gramophone, and to the jarring strains of a well-worn record of Eastern music, the curtain was drawn jerkily aside.

  The boy sat in a high-backed chair on a raised dais looking straight ahead. Mesmero moved slowly toward the dais, his hands outstretched in the conventional gesture of casting a spell.

  "I will now put this boy into a state of trance and he will be submissive to my will," he said in a sonorous broken accent. "Tojo—look at me." The boy slowly turned his head. "Look in my eyes… submit… submit…"

  The boy swallowed convulsively, then said quite clearly, "I cannot…"

  Someone tittered and murmured audibly, "Deaf and dumb, I don't think!"

  "Tojo!" Mesmero thundered. "You will obey!"

  "I—I cannot," the boy said again, and slumped forward in his chair.

  For a moment Mesmero stood uncertainly; then he announced solemnly to the skeptical audience, "Silence! Tojo is in trance."

  "You'd better stop this nonsense, the boy's ill," Adam said quietly, and pushed his way through the little group of people. The man in the purple sweater appeared suddenly from outside and began to clear the tent.

  "Who are you?" Mesmero asked imperiously, but he looked frightened.

  "I'm a doctor," Adam replied, and bent over the boy.

  Now he knew what had puzzled him about him. Even when he had been standing outside on the platform he had been on the verge of collapse. Adam lifted him out of the chair and, laying him flat on the grass, loosened his tunic and felt for his heart. He looked up quickly with a sardonic lift of the eyebrows.

  "You're a phony all through, aren't you, Mesmero?" he remarked. "Why trouble to hide her sex? Isn't a girl a more glamorous addition to an act than a boy?"

  Mesmero looked uneasy.

  "It has always been so. The Mighty Mesmero and Tojo. We are known everywhere in show business, and we cannot change the act because the real boy is missing. I know nothing about this girl, doctor. She comes to me, she wants a job, the show opens in half an hour and there is no Tojo. I look at her, she is small, thin, she will pass for a boy. What could I do?"

  "There's no law as far as I know against girls impersonating boys on the stage or vice versa," retorted Adam. "Cut short the protestations and fetch me some water.
"

  The girl opened her eyes. They were gray and heavily lashed and looked too big for her thin, delicate face.

  "Who are you?" she asked.

  "I'm a doctor," Adam said. "You fainted at the beginning of your act. Lie still, you'll feel better soon."

  She pulled off the tight skullcap with a sigh of relief. Without it she looked less strained and pinched, though the impression of delicacy was heightened. Her hair, so fair that it was silver rather than gold, was cut short and curled over her head like a very young child's.

  Adam smiled involuntarily.

  "How did you come to get mixed up with a bunch like this?" he asked. "You don't belong among these people."

  "I do not belong anywhere," she replied sedately. "But I have to eat."

  Mesmero came back with a glass of water and she took it from him, gravely sipping it.

  "I'm afraid I spoiled your act, Mr. Mesmero," she said. "You should have let me have that meal when I asked you for it."

  "There was no time," he blustered. "You had to be re­hearsed, you had to get dressed. There was one little half hour and you had to think of food!"

  "Have you ever been hungry, Mr. Mesmero?" she said gently, and Adam glanced at her sharply.

  "When did you last have a proper meal?" he asked.

  "Two days ago—I think," she replied. "You see, I had to pay for my room, and I could not have a room and eat, as well."

  "You did not tell me this. I know nothing about you," Mesmero protested. "But now I pay you for the performance you ruined and you go and get a meal. That is generous, hein?"

  "But you said I could stay here until the fair moved on."

  "No, no, no, that is impossible. There is no room."

  The strange little air of composure left her and her face crumpled up like a child's.

  "But I have nowhere to go," she said.

  "What about this room that took all the money you should have spent on food?" Adam inquired with skeptical amuse­ment.

  "My landlady let my room this morning. I could not have afforded to stay on without a job anyway," she said, and the uncontrollable tears of the result of overstrain filled her eyes.

  Adam made a quick decision. She was nearer a breakdown than he had at first supposed. The whole situation was bizarre and possibly quite spurious, but professional instinct would not allow him to abandon her in such circumstances.

  "You had better come back with me to my hotel and they'll find you a room for the night," he said prosaically. "I have to return to my home tomorrow, but in the morning we can talk."

  She looked at him suspiciously.

  "But I don't know you," she said with sudden primness.

  His smile was a little sardonic.

  "What difference does that make? You didn't know the Mighty Mesmero, either, but you were prepared to spend the night here."

  He had deliberately spoken sharply and he saw her flush.

  "That was different," she replied. "It was a business prop­osition."

  "Weil, we can't discuss business at this hour and place. Look on me as a meal ticket if you like, but come along."

  "Yes, yes, go with the gentleman," said Mesmero hastily. "The fair is closing down and we do not want the police inquiring why we do not close the booths."

  "Or one or two other little things, I shouldn't be surprised," said Adam pleasantly.

  The man gave him a quick, suspicious look, then hustled the girl out of the tent to the caravan where she had changed her clothes.

  Adam had managed to get hold of a taxi while he was waiting, for he did not think she was fit to walk back to the hotel. He glanced at her with mild curiosity as she walked across the grass from the caravan, carrying a small suitcase, but her age still defeated him.

  "Feeling better?" he asked.

  "Empty," she said as he took the suitcase from her.

  "Well, we'll soon remedy that. Come along."

  As the car drew up at the hotel, he said, "By the way, what's your name?"

  "Miranda," she replied. "Miranda Clare."

  Most of the residents had gone to bed, for it was nearly eleven o'clock.

  "The young lady will be staying the night if you have a room. A patient of mine," Adam said to the sleepy reception clerk.

  "Certainly, Mr. Chantry," the man replied. "On the same floor as yours?"

  "It doesn't matter," Adam said indifferently, and caught a wide grin on the girl's face. It changed her completely, lending her an air of mischief that was very charming. His answering glance was severe and he turned to the clerk.

  "Can the kitchen produce a meal of sorts?" he asked, frowning.

  "I'll see what I can do, sir," the man said. "For one— upstairs?"

  "For one—in the dining room."

  He took the girl into a small smoking room that was deserted. The remains of a fire burned in the grate. Miranda crouched beside it and held out her cold, slender hands to the warmth.

  "The clerk thinks you have improper designs on me," she said. "Have you?"

  "My dear child!" He was beginning to feel annoyed. "You are very clearly young enough to be my daughter."

  "Why, how old are you?" she asked him gravely.

  "Thirty-eight."

  "You would have to have been rather precocious to be my father," she said with a little smile. "I'm nineteen."

  "Then you ought to know better than to join up with a ruffian like the Mighty Mesmero." He sounded brusque. "I suppose you realize what would have been the end of it?"

  "I suppose so. But when one is hungry and without any money, one does not stop to think. You haven't a very good bedside manner, have you?" she said.

  "I don't need a bedside manner in my profession."

  "I thought you said you were a doctor. You aren't, are you? The clerk addressed you as mister."

  "I'm a surgeon, not a general practitioner. My dear girl, what do you really suppose I've brought you here for?"

  "I don't know. As I said before, when you're hungry and without a lodging you do not ask too many questions."

  He moved impatiently. He could not make her out. One moment she was like the child he had first taken her for, the next she was discussing very adult problems with a provocative air of composure.

  "And are you prepared then to—shall we say, humor me— for the price of a night's lodging and comfort?" he asked.

  She looked across at him, seeing the sudden hardness in his dark face, the indifferent coolness in his eyes, and the hands she was holding to the fire suddenly trembled.

  "I—I don't think my ideas are very coherent," she faltered.

  She had gone very white, and before he could speak again she broke into a storm of weeping.

  "Now, look here, this won't do," he said, and his voice was suddenly gentle. "You were pulling my leg, weren't you, and perhaps I was pulling yours? You may be nineteen and highly versed in the ways of the world, but at the moment you're nothing but an overwrought child and I should know better than to permit scenes of this kind. Now, stop crying, and tell me how you've come to be landed in such a predicament."

  Weeping, she told him her story. There was little to relate. She had spent much of her life in France with an artist father. She had no mother. Someone called Pierre Morel figured in the story, but whether he was a brother or a friend, Adam could not gather. A year ago, her father had crossed to England without her. He had been failing in health for some time, but how ill he was no one had guessed. He had been carried off the boat in a critical condition and taken straight to hospital, where he had died in the operating room. It had taken some time for the authorities to trace her, and by the time the news reached France, Frank Clare had been buried for a week.

  "Who is this Pierre?" asked Adam. "Didn't he look after you when your father died, as there seems to be no one else?"

  "He did what he could, but he had no money, either, and his affairs were in a delicate state, you understand? He could not show me too much attention because of the Latours."
<
br />   "Who are the Latours?"

  "Distant cousins of his."

  "Then he's not a relative of yours?"

  "Pierre? Oh, no, no, but a very dear friend. Pierre is French. He used to tease me and say he would marry me when I grew up, but I think by now he is married to Marguerite Latour, because of the money, you see."

  "And then you came to England?" he prompted.

  "Yes. Pierre remembered my mother had relatives in Eng­land, but when I got here I found they had gone overseas many years ago. There was no means of tracing them. Pierre sent me a little money, but he could not afford much, and I could not go back to France—to Pierre. It would have upset the Latours, which was only natural. When he and Marguerite married, he said, they would have me to stay and find me a husband in the French fashion."

  "But you are not French, Miranda," said Adam a little dryly. "Wouldn't you mind being married off in the French fashion, as you call it?"

  "No," she said. "Security is better than independence, and I am not romantic."

  "You won't always feel like that. You're very young."

  She had stopped crying and now she looked at him with an air of tolerant wisdom that he found rather disconcerting.

  "No, my friend," she said. "After a year of accepting any job that would keep me alive, I shall never scoff at security. If you must have love thrown in, well—I do not think it would be difficult to make yourself love someone who was reasonably decent."

  His eyebrows went up, but all he said was, "You have some rather startling ideas. Ah, here's your supper."

  While she ate she told Adam something about the way she had been living for the past year. She was skilled at nothing useful, she said, and she had no references. She was too young, too old, too talkative, too silent, and always she was inexperi­enced.

  "Whatever the job, I was wrong," she said. By the time she had chanced on the fair and the Mighty Mesmero, she was hungry and homeless and without a penny.

  "If I had not been starving I would have enjoyed it," she said. "It's all trickery, you know. He could not have hypnotized me, really."